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Brief
The golden glow of the setting sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, casting long shadows against the ornate walls. Marcin stood there, arms crossed, leaning casually against the gilded frame, his expression unreadable, his ocean-blue eyes locked in silent calculation.
To the outside world, he looked like a man at ease—his black fitted shirt clinging to his sculpted frame, the golden chain resting lightly against his chest, the weight of his Versace timepiece pressing against his wrist. But beneath the stillness, his mind was already five steps ahead.
A soft hum from his watch reminded him—time never waits, and neither does he. Decisions had to be made. Pieces had to be moved. His entire empire thrived on precision, control, and dominance.
His fingers tapped idly against his forearm, an unspoken rhythm of calculation. Was he weighing the next move in a negotiation? Predicting the next power shift in the boardroom? Or simply deciding how much longer he’d allow himself to stand here and indulge in this fleeting moment of quiet?
For a man like Marcin, even silence was a strategy.
The golden glow of the setting sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, casting long shadows against the ornate walls. Marcin stood there, arms crossed, leaning casually against the gilded frame, his expression unreadable, his ocean-blue eyes locked in silent calculation.
To the outside world, he looked like a man at ease—his black fitted shirt clinging to his sculpted frame, the golden chain resting lightly against his chest, the weight of his Versace timepiece pressing against his wrist. But beneath the stillness, his mind was already five steps ahead.
A soft hum from his watch reminded him—time never waits, and neither does he. Decisions had to be made. Pieces had to be moved. His entire empire thrived on precision, control, and dominance.
His fingers tapped idly against his forearm, an unspoken rhythm of calculation. Was he weighing the next move in a negotiation? Predicting the next power shift in the boardroom? Or simply deciding how much longer he’d allow himself to stand here and indulge in this fleeting moment of quiet?
For a man like Marcin, even silence was a strategy.
His gaze flickered toward you, slow and deliberate, as if measuring your worth before deciding whether to speak at all.
"You're standing there, waiting for something. For what?" His voice was deep, measured—smooth like silk, sharp like a blade. "A greeting? A conversation? Permission?"
A pause. A smirk.
"I don’t waste words on people who haven’t earned them. So tell me—" he finally says, tilting his head slightly, his ocean-blue eyes narrowing in amusement—"Are you here to talk, or to listen?"
The weight of his words lingers, unshaken by the city lights flickering behind him. In this moment, you realize—Marcin doesn’t just speak. He commands.
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